


Tooth and Nail

by TurtleTotem



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Charles in a Wheelchair, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Possessive Behavior, disabled charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 00:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9148654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: Erik is no longer part of Charles's pack. It's none of his business who he takes as a mate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thacmis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thacmis/gifts).



> For [Thacmis](http://thacmis.tumblr.com), who wanted possessive!Charles.

The Wolfmeet was a longstanding tradition for the werewolf packs of North America, and a very valuable one. There likely wasn't a pack in the world that couldn't make use of a chance to swap goods and stories and, perhaps even more important, genes, with other packs, whether through formal alliance as mates, or simply, well… a few hundred young wolves mingling and letting nature take its course.

A gathering of hundreds of werewolves meant a lot of nature taking a lot of courses; tempers ran high, celebration grew rowdy, and the annual Moon Run had to be carefully planned and controlled so it didn't become an impromptu Hunt of some poor farmer's cattle—or worse. They seldom held the Wolfmeet in the same place twice, usually at law enforcement's request.

That was one of the many things he and Erik had fought about, Charles remembered, swallowing hard as he parked the pack van outside this year's venue. (The whole pack could travel together, now, with Erik and Raven gone. He could, perhaps, consider that an upside.) Erik had always gotten so angry whenever the police inevitably showed up, not even waiting to see if they had a legitimate complaint.

Part of him still hoped Erik wouldn't be here. Another part desperately hoped that he would.

"Best behavior, now, chaps," he called, opening his door and readying his wheelchair as Hank and the other boys piled out of the van.

"No promises," Alex muttered.

Charles pretended not to hear him, and they all prowled into the rented-out skating rink that hosted this year's Wolfmeet.

 

Of course, Erik was one of the first people he saw inside. Charles had been an idiot, really, to think there was any chance of him not attending; as a brand-new alpha, winner of a hostile takeover, he could not lose the opportunity to make alliances and show strength. Erik had never cared much for others' opinions—but if he wanted to secure his new position, that might have to change. It was quite the scandal, Sebastian Shaw killed and his pack taken over by the upstart beta of another pack.

Especially the beta of the Xavier pack. Charles had a reputation, both positive and negative, for avoiding violence. That Charles's beta would not only leave him, but gain leadership of a rival pack through the most violent means possible—well, there would be plenty for everyone to talk about at this year's Wolfmeet, that was for certain. And Erik wasn't the only alpha who might need to make a show of strength to maintain his status.

The inside of the skating rink looked like nothing so much as a high-school reunion. The lights were dim, and dominated by a sparkling disco ball overhead; décor was mostly balloons and streamers, all in green and black, the colors of this year's host pack. The refreshment table, in one important difference from a human gathering, was stocked almost exclusively with meat, and the ten-year-old pop hits playing over the speaker system were turned so low that most humans would not have been able to hear them. Werewolves did not appreciate the distraction of loud noise.

At this hour, everyone was still in human form, dressed in their best and drifting from one knot of conversation to another. It was easy to tell which wolves lived in human society to one degree or another, and which had had to drag themselves out of a den in the woods, reclaim old clothes from a storage unit, and spend the day remembering how to walk on two legs.

Emma Frost, who was standing next to Erik and leaning close to whisper in his ear, was definitely in the "human society" category. Her white cocktail dress glittered like diamond, her hair fashionably cut and styled, nails manicured and iridescent in the changeable light. Interesting, that she was socializing with Erik. Though a staunchly neutral and independent lone wolf, Emma had long been a loose ally (and occasional mate) of Shaw's. Her relationship with him had been less sentimental even than it seemed, if she was willing to share a plate of sausage bites with his killer.

Charles felt a low growl vibrate in his chest, and choked it down before anyone could hear—anyone but Hank, who looked expressionlessly from Charles to Erik and Emma across the room. Charles saw his gaze flit around the area near Erik, doubtless hoping to find Raven, but she wouldn't be there; Raven was a master at avoiding anything that made her feel guilty, and between Hank and Charles, this year's Wolfmeet would top the list.

Charles was so busy looking at everyone and everything near Erik, and not looking at Erik at all, that he steered his wheelchair straight off the curb onto the skating rink.

He pitched forward, struggling for control of the chair, and might well have spilled himself onto the shiny wood floor except for Hank's quick reflexes. He hauled Charles and chair back onto the carpeted floor, drawing far more attention with his startled exclamations and frantic questioning than the event itself had.

"Yes, Hank, thank you, I'm _fine_ , Hank—"

"Charles."

Words stopped in his throat, and Charles looked up at, of course, Erik.

The suit was new, and nicer than anything Charles had ever been able to persuade him to wear. The magenta tie might be a questionable choice, but the jacket emphasized all the best things about Erik's waist-to-shoulder ratio. He was clean-shaven, his hair neatly cut, and the decluttered look brought out the beauty of his ocean-colored eyes.

Charles stared, and the only word his brain could come up with one he tried not to say around the boys. Because if his pathetic crush on his beta had been inappropriate, it was probably even worse on the new alpha of Sebastian Shaw's pack.

"Are you all right?" Erik asked, gesturing at the wheelchair.

"I'm splendid," Charles said shortly. "Why wouldn't I be? Now if you'll excuse me." He shoved the chair past Erik, very possible crushing his foot in the process. Hank followed, shooting Erik a dirty look over his shoulder.

Across the room, Emma Frost appeared to be hiding a smirk in a sip of punch.

 

There were plenty of people Charles _did_ want to speak to. Storm's pack had grown, or rather, she had finally accepted T'Challa's suit, making them co-alphas of their merged packs. Kitty Pryde was old enough now that her parents had their eyes open for potential mates. Moira MacTaggert, the only human that had ever attended a Wolfmeet as far as Charles knew, was still gathering information for her thesis about werewolf pack dynamics. A few lone wolves that Charles had tried to keep tabs on over the years had joined packs, to his happy surprise.

"It's getting harder to get by as a loner," Logan grumbled, chewing the cigar he'd been forbidden from lighting inside. "I ain't ready to take oath to any alpha yet, but I can't criticize them as does, not anymore. The world's getting too small. Even Emma Frost's trying to cozy her way into a pack. If you ain't noticed." His arched eyebrow told Charles that he knew full well he had noticed. "Not that she's looking to come in at the bottom, you understand."

Charles took a swallow of his punch. It was spiked, of course. Thank God. "If she's looking to be Erik's beta," he said, voice carefully even and casual, "she'll find that spot's already taken." He liked to think Raven wouldn't have left him for anything less.

"Beta? Ha, not Frost. She's shooting for co-alpha."

Charles choked on his punch. "Erik would never take _Emma Frost_ as his mate."

"You sure about that?" Logan was looking over Charles's shoulder; Charles turned, and saw exactly what he meant.

At a table in a dim corner, Erik and Emma sat close together, both smiling, arms brushing, Emma pulling pale hair over her shoulder to grant him better access to her ear as they murmured and laughed.

Charles strangled another growl. He had no right—had _never_ had any right to police Erik's choice of mate, not a casual Wolfmeet encounter anyway, and if Erik did choose to bring Emma into his pack, that was nothing that his ex-alpha could or should interfere with.

If he'd made an offer to Erik, back when he'd had the chance—if he'd muscled past his shy uncertainty, his fear of unseemly haste, if he'd stopped waiting for signs of reciprocation and simply put his own feelings out there—would Erik have taken a co-alpha position and felt no need to seek his own pack? Would it have been only for the position's sake, or could he have grown to love Charles? Would it have been worth it, to have him, to keep him, even knowing that to Erik he was only a means to an end?

"Aw, hell, Chuck," Logan said. "I didn't realize it was like that."

"Like what?" Charles snapped, draining his cup of punch, and only felt worse when Logan shook his head and didn't reply.


	2. Chapter 2

The Moon Run began at 8:00, the soonest they could count on having full darkness. The skating rink was on the outskirts of town, and they had only to cross the empty lot next door before they hit woods. Barring a few volunteers whose job it was to open and close the doors, most people would be in wolf form before they left the building.

Charles smiled and joked with his boys as they stripped down and stored their clothes in the provided lockers. Despite all the pains and displeasures of the evening, he couldn't help looking forward to the Moon Run. Anticipation tingled under his skin, his pulse quickening at the idea of running pell-mell through strange forest, howling in unison with so many of his people. It was the best part of any Wolfmeet, a time of freedom and harmony and joy.

He let Hank help him out of his chair onto the floor, and began to Change.

The process was slow and difficult for newer wolves, those still learning how to surrender their humanity—unless they were the sort whose problem was remembering how to pick it up again. Charles had the privilege of being born a wolf, his first Change traumatic in that no one had told him how it worked, but at least lacking the horror of being attacked and Changed against his will. Not like Erik—but he wasn't going to think about Erik now.

He was only going to think about the wolf, about the satisfaction of his senses sharpening, his muscles strengthening, his legs waking from their numb sleep as the wolf took control of his damaged body.

Yips and barks of joy echoed in the locker room, and Charles joined in, his claws clicking against the floor as he and Hank danced in a circle.

All through the building, human scents were giving way to canine ones, flooding Charles's newly-sensitive nose as he recognized old friends in a way entirely different than seeing them with his eyes. Scent bypassed the brain and went straight to the heart, pulling up memories and associations—he'd read about it, about how scent was more intimately connected to memory than any other sense, not that the wolf cared about wheres and whyfores—

That, of course, was when he came nose-to-nose with Erik.

Like his human one, Erik's wolf form was tall and angular. His fur was solid gunmetal gray—most wolves were a scruffy blend of gray and brown, lightened in Charles's case by a white patch on his chest, but of course Erik was more elegant than that, and more sinister. He smelled like… he smelled like dawn at the lake on Charles's 30th birthday, like iced tea spilled down the stairs while they fell over laughing, like snow under starlight the night they had to dig an emergency den together in Colorado. He smelled like comfort and happiness and home.

Emma Frost, now a pure-white wolf with traces of iridescent polish on her claws, gave Erik's shoulder a playful nip as she darted by. Erik turned and followed her, not looking back, as all the wolves streamed out the back door into the night air.

 

For a while, everything was fine, or close enough to it. They all ran together, hundreds of wolves, moonlight falling on them like a waterfall of bliss, legs stretching and hearts pounding. Howls occasionally burst from their throats, an outlet for the overpowering joy and satisfaction of running with other wolves, so many other wolves, under the moon where they belonged.

And then the pairing off began.

It was the natural conclusion of the Run, one couple after another breaking off from the main pack to run alone together—and, eventually, "run" together. The Moon Run could not become a hunt, not if there were humans within a hundred miles, so the energy of the Run had to channel itself elsewhere. Many a born-wolf could cheerfully point to a Moon Run origin, and such pups were considered good luck for a pack.

Emma tried to steer Erik away from the main Run, and Charles bit her.

He didn't mean to do it, was appalled that he'd done it—at least, Charles-the-man was appalled. Charles-the-wolf was, of course, a _wolf,_ driven by instincts that were much harder to repress on four legs than on two. Instincts that told him to defend his territory, and fight for his mate.

Emma yelped, when Charles's teeth closed on her flank, and spun toward him with teeth bared. Her scent flared with surprise when she saw her attacker—as well it might, considering Charles's reputation for "nonviolence verging on doormattery," as Erik had once put it. But Charles wasn't paying much attention to Emma. All his focus was on Erik. How would Erik, leader of his own pack, react to having his choice of mate questioned by his former alpha? He'd be well within his rights to join Emma in returning the attack, or file a complaint of Interference. Or even to challenge Charles to formal combat.

Instead, Erik fell back, looking from Charles to Emma and back with an unreadable expression, and sat, tail curled around his feet. Awaiting the outcome of the challenge, like any unclaimed submissive wolf.

Both Charles and Emma stared at him for a moment. And then Charles paid for his distraction, as Emma leaped for his throat.

Charles sidestepped out of the attack like a greased eel, and evaded the second attempt just as easily—but he would have to do better than defensive moves to win this fight. Emma was a fierce and accomplished fighter—no lone wolf survived as long and as well as she had otherwise—and she wasn't pulling any punches.

What she didn't know was that Charles's distaste for violence was not, by any means, an inability to use it. And that some days, the ability to shift to wolf and train until he collapsed was the only thing that kept Charles sane.

He let Emma underestimate him as long as possible, throwing herself into attacks that would have, should have overwhelmed him and ended the fight quickly and decisively. He tried to give her no time to learn from her mistakes, or even catch her breath, harrying her with snaps and scratches that irritated more than they injured, keeping her constantly reacting, evading, dodging—and before she knew it, Charles had taken the offensive, and was driving her back, away from Erik.

The sounds of combat drew onlookers, of course, the Moon Run growing thin more quickly than usual as a dozen wolves gathered to see who had provoked _Charles Xavier_ into a fight. Charles tried to pay them no mind at all. They were honor-bound not to interfere, not even his confused and stricken boys as they fell back, making way for the fight.

More distracting than the crowd were Charles's own emotions. Everything he had suppressed and ignored and talked himself out of feeling as a man was coming back to the wolf with a vengeance. The wolf didn't care that Erik had been his subordinate and emotionally vulnerable, that Charles's feelings for him were inappropriate and almost certainly unreciprocated. The wolf only cared that Erik was beautiful and powerful and _needed_ him, the wolf only cared that he had seen and known and loved Erik first and that made Erik _his._ And the wolf—the wolf was as much a part of Charles as the man.

Trying to bottle down his jealous rage cost Charles a moment's focus, and Emma got in her first serious victory, a bite that drew blood on the side of his face and tore the tip of his ear. Charles snarled and kicked free of her jaws, a panicked move that cost him the offensive—suddenly she was pressing him, driving him backward into gnarled underbrush that would trap him if he wasn't careful. He jinked and weaved, trying to break away from her, but couldn't see a way…

Behind Emma's bared teeth and furious eyes, he caught sight of Erik. No longer in his patient, neutral pose, he was standing, stiff and quivering. He caught Charles's eye, for the briefest possible moment, and tipped his head up in what could only be called haughty annoyance. _Do you call this a fight?_ it seemed to say. _If you want me,_ earn _me._

Charles snarled and threw himself at Emma in a stupid, reckless attack that only succeeded through sheer surprise. He and Emma tumbled, scattering the onlookers, each snapping and scrabbling desperately. Charles felt Emma's teeth at his throat, catching mostly fur; he tore himself away before she could shift to a stronger grip. He raked his back claws at Emma's belly, which was enough to push her off him by an inch or two, enough to let him roll them over—and to his shock, he found that Emma's throat was suddenly in his teeth, her pulse pounding against the grip of his jaws, blood only a moment's pressure from spilling.

He froze, waiting, hoping Emma would have the grace and good sense to yield, and not force him to apply that moment's pressure.

After a long, tense moment of resistance, Emma's body shuddered and relaxed, surrendering. She let out a single whine, almost more annoyed than pleading, but enough to make it inarguable that Charles had won.

Charles had won.

He released Emma and stepped back, chest heaving. Sean and Alex eased up to him, sniffing for injuries, one of them licking nervously at his bleeding ear; Charles hadn't even realized they were there. Emma, with no packmates to turn to, got cautiously to her feet, and limped away, back toward the skating rink. She kept her hackles up, meeting no one's eyes; Charles swallowed a peculiar urge to apologize.

Instead, he turned toward Erik. Who looked back, ear pricked, eyes warm in a way Charles had never seen before.

No, he had. More than once. And never directed at anyone but him. Fierce, possessive joy burned in his veins, insisting that Erik was _his_ fair and square, insisting—hoping, at least, desperately hoping—that they both knew it and both wanted it that way. That feeling warred with dread and a painful conviction that he was misreading everything, that Erik was probably furious and wanted nothing to do with him.

Everyone was leaving, rejoining the Run or just finding somewhere else to be, giving privacy to the victor and his hard-won prize. Long before Charles was ready for the prospect, he and Erik were alone.

As if by prior agreement, they simultaneously began to Change, returning to human form. The wolf was good for a lot of things, but not talking, and they really needed to talk.

But when they were both fully human, naked in the forest that felt much darker and colder without the strength of the wolf, neither of them spoke. Charles swallowed against the pounding of his heart, arranging his motionless legs into a crossed position before him as he leaned back against a tree.

Erik spoke at last. "I didn't… I thought you…"

"What?" Charles asked, when he didn't finish.

Erik drew a breath. "I thought you didn't want me."

_"What?"_

"You said you couldn't have someone like me in your pack."

"What I said was that my pack couldn't—couldn't do what you were doing, that we couldn't be part of your revenge scheme against Shaw, I didn't—" Charles's voice caught, tangled up in a bewildered replay of that last conversation. "Erik, I didn't want you to leave. I didn't _ever_ want you to leave."

Erik was stepping closer, moonlight shifting over lean muscle and bronze skin. Charles had always been a bit stupid in the face of Erik's sheer physical beauty, and tonight was no exception. He fell silent, dry-mouthed, and then struggled for the words he felt he ought to have said already.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I know I shouldn't have interfered with your—with you and Emma—regardless of my feelings, it wasn't appropriate for me to—"

Erik dropped to his knees, more or less in Charles's lap, and kissed him.

In stunned confusion, Charles actually tried to keep talking at first, while Erik smiled against his mouth and kept right on kissing him, soft and insistent and exploratory. After a moment, Charles's muffled, nonsensical words dissolved into a boneless moan. His arms wrapped around Erik's waist, pulling him closer.

"Charles," Erik murmured against his lips. "I never wanted Emma. I never imagined you'd step in—no, actually, that was exactly what I imagined, I just didn't think you actually would."

"You _wanted_ me to…?"

"I wanted to make you jealous. I wanted you to fight for me." Erik's voice was low and rough, sending a shiver down Charles's back. "And you did. And now, for tonight, I'm yours. What are you going to do about that, Charles?"

A hint of the wolf reverberated through Charles's chest in a lazy growl, as he tightened his arms around Erik and rolled them away from the tree he was propped against, pinning Erik beneath him on the ground. In human form, Charles was no good at all as a fighter; Erik could have broken away from him a blink. Instead, he grinned and tipped his head, giving Charles his throat.

Charles made good use of it.


	3. Chapter 3

A lot of wolf-pairings happened at the Wolfmeet. And considerably fewer formal matings.

Couples might part as friends, or pretend their interlude never happened at all. They might attain a formal alliance between their packs, or cause a minor scandal by pledging themselves to each other without their alphas' approval. Everything depended on the couple's body language the next morning. Within moments of their stepping into sight at the breakfast buffet, everyone would be able to tell which option a pair had gone with.

The awkward and heartbreaking thing, of course, was when a couple disagreed. Charles had always hated to see it, always felt sorry for the glowing-eyed dominants whose glow died in hurt and confusion when last night's eager submissive shrugged off the arm around their shoulders, or the blushing subs who expected to be publicly claimed, and found themselves abruptly alone. Charles had always found it strange and inexplicable, though, that couples wouldn't _discuss_ it beforehand, decide how they were going to handle their morning after _before_ all eyes were on them.

Charles owed every one of those humiliated wolves an apology, because now he was the one facing a Wolfmeet morning after, and he had no idea how to even broach the subject of what they were going to do now.

He and Erik had spent… a long time in the woods together, before retiring to Charles's hotel room, only twenty minutes away at a wolf's lope. Charles had woken to a scenario he had only barely dared dream about—Erik in his bed, their limbs tangled together, Erik smiling sleepily at him and pulling him closer to initiate round—four? Round five? Definitely round five by Charles's count.

They didn't speak, really, not anything sensible—Charles didn't imagine that moaning each other's names, or Charles inviting Erik into the shower with him, counted as a conversation. Only after the shower did words become necessary, when Charles burst into laughter upon realizing his wheelchair was still across town at the skating rink. So were both their cars. So, it transpired, were Erik's clothes; Charles had spares in the hotel room, but Erik did not. His attempt to fit into something of Charles's prompted more laughter, which dissolved into Round Six.

Charles called Hank, who brought the van and the wheelchair and his own spare clothes; his height was closer to Erik's. Confronted with the knowledge of who his alpha had spent the night with—he'd missed the fight, apparently—Hank said nothing whatsoever. He said it so loudly and with such sustained eloquence that it became a joke between Charles and Erik, laughing helplessly into each other's shoulders in the back of the van.

Hank had never gotten along with Erik. Several members of the pack had been, well, ambivalent about Erik, and even more had taken his departure as a personal betrayal. It would be difficult for Erik to re-enter the pack.

And that thought was the first time Charles forced himself to actually think about what he was doing. Erik was the alpha of his own pack. He was hardly going to give that up because Charles showed him a good time in bed. To do so would be a gross dereliction of is leadership duties, even if he wanted to; both his stock and Charles's would plummet, and for good or ill, that mattered among werewolves.

At best, then, he and Erik would part as friends. Exchange a last, cheerful kiss goodbye at the door before rejoining their respective packs, wherever they would have gathered at the breakfast tables. He thought surely he could trust Erik not to try pretending it hadn't happened, not when _everyone_ already knew—then again, Charles thought with a leaden feeling in his stomach, might Erik feel some need to assert dominance, after being _won in a fight_ like some blushing omega, feel that a cold public rejection was necessary to guard his position? Was that why Erik was suddenly grown quiet and still beside him, arm still around Charles and face pressed into his hair but no longer laughing, certainly not speaking? Not that Charles was speaking either. Hank's eyes, catching his in the rearview mirror as they pulled into the parking lot, were full of concern.

Erik readied the wheelchair outside the car door, and backed off to let Charles transfer into it, managing to keep himself handy without _hovering_ like Hank tended to do. But he didn't speak, and he didn't meet Charles's eyes. Not that Charles tried very hard to catch them, too afraid of what he would see.

Then they were approaching the doorway, and Charles still had no idea what was about to happen.

The smart thing would be to follow Erik's lead, prepare himself for the likelihood of an amicable parting at the door, and let things end happily. Let the last twelve hours be a sort of dream, possibly to be repeated next year, or possibly never again. To let Erik go, and not drag something bright and sweet and wonderful into a muddy, painful mess. That was the smart thing to do.

And Charles knew, with a sudden, deep and stomach-churning certainty, that he would not be able to do it. He had lost Erik once by failing to speak his heart, by not making himself understood. He wouldn't do that again.

The moment was upon them, the doors closing behind them and a hundred pairs of curious eyes looking up from their breakfasts to catch the next act in this year's drama. Charles's pack was off to the right, Hank already crossing the room toward them; Erik's was, perhaps coincidentally, as far to the left as possible, Azazel and Angel and Janos watching with faces like stone.

Maybe it was only in Charles's mind that Erik's body was already pivoting to the left, already leaning away, leaving him.

In the split second remaining to make a choice, Charles snaked an arm around Erik's waist, pulled him close, and bit the edge of his hip.

It wasn't an aggressive move, as such, but it was a blatantly dominant one. An assertion of ownership. A claiming.

Gasps and mutters—shocked, amused, horrified—rippled through the room, a surprisingly accurate reflection of the inside of Charles's own head. He had just _claimed_ the alpha of another pack. He would be lucky if Erik didn't challenge him here and now. Best case scenario, Erik coldly shoved him off and never spoke to him again.

Instead, after a long, stiff, silent moment, Erik leaned down and bit Charles on the neck.

It was the only gesture he could have made that was _more_ possessive than Charles's. It wasn't submissive in the least, yet it couldn't possibly be interpreted as a rejection of the claim.

Stunned, a dizzying tingle spreading from his neck through his body, Charles tried to marshal a response. What exactly did this mean? Was Erik joining his pack, or inviting Charles to join his, or…?

Erik straightened up, one hand resting on Charles's shoulder, and jerked his chin at his watching pack members, summoning them—not to his side, and not to the Xavier pack's table to the right, but to the one large empty table remaining in the center.

Oh. _Oh._

Charles did the same, stifling a slightly hysterical laugh at Hank's dismayed expression. The two packs joined their alphas as the table, moving cautiously, legs stiff and hackles raised as much as possible in human form—but without obvious offers of violence.

Inevitably, Charles's pack sat along one side of the table, and Erik's on the other. Charles wondered what would happen when the twain had to meet—the table was round, and there would be no room to spare—

Hank took the last seat on Charles's side, next to the last of Erik's. Raven.

Charles started, hands going to the wheels of his chair as if to go to her—but Erik put a belaying hand on his wrist, and Raven's distant expression confirmed that the approach would have been unwelcome. Hank's proximity seemed to be all she could deal with at present.

"She came in late, joined up halfway through the Moon Run," Sean whispered beside Charles. "She and Hank have been acting like they don't know each other, but uh. There's a reason Hank missed your fight last night."

Charles managed to hide a smirk in a swallow from one of the water glasses already on the table. This was going to be interesting.

The smirk gave way to a deeper and more genuine smile as Erik laced their fingers together under the table.

"Room for one more?" Emma Frost looked as poised and untouchable as ever; no one further away than Charles could have seen the expertly applied makeup over the scratches on her face.

Charles tilted his head, looking cautiously from Emma to Erik. "What do you think, darling?"

"The position of co-alpha is taken," Erik said to Emma, tightening his grip on Charles's hand.

"Obviously," she replied, cool and neutral. "Nevertheless."

Charles, watching Erik's expression, perceived no particular objection. He reached for the empty chair at the next table, dragging it over, and gave Emma a smile before his gaze returned inexorably to Erik. He raised their interlaced hands to his lips. "Welcome to our pack."


End file.
